


Broken Horizon

by Luna_Hart



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Sad with a Happy Ending, Tears, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-29 10:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13925259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: It had been a year since the war ended, six years since Collins' crashed his plane into the channel, and seven years since he’d lost his heart to a pilot with sea-storm eyes.





	1. And You Ask "What if I fall?"

Collins glanced up from his teacup into snap-green eyes. She sat across at him at the little table in the little sunny parlour of her little fourth floor London apartment. It was so peaceful and perfect and so normal that it made Collins’ teeth hurt.

He had met Faye three years ago, laid up in a crowded hospital with shrapnel wounds to his leg. She had been one of the new nurses assigned to his ward. Soft smiles and gentle eyes turned into murmured words as she helped him walk for the first time since his surgery. Then came letters once she had been transferred to a different hospital. She had been the one to find _him_ , after the war, living in a draughty one-room apartment just outside of London because he had no clue what to do with himself now. She’d dragged him out of his spiral and back onto his feet, helping him find balance and a purpose again. It had made sense, in a world that no longer didn't. At least with Faye by his side, he no longer had hovering mothers trying to push their daughters on the ' _former RAF hero_ '. At least he didn't have people sending him sidelong glances, wondering what was wrong with him because what normal, good looking young man of his age wasn't married?

His eyes drifted over the masses of fire-coloured curls that strained against their pins, a few locks dancing around her eyes; the cupid-bow lips that were quick to smile; porcelain skin with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was beautiful and it made Collins’ gut twist with guilt every time he looked at her. It took him a moment to realize she had spoken and clearly was now waiting for an answer. “Sorry, what did you say?” he asked, covering his growing unease with a lopsided smile. He couldn't read the look in her eyes for the life of him.

“I said what’s are we doing?” 

“I don’t—,” he started, completely thrown. “Three years,” she declared. “Three years we’ve been dancing around each other. My feet are getting tired.” Collins blinked, starting to feel very frustrated by this one-sided conversation. He’d never been good at reading between the lines. “Is there another woman?” she asked pointedly, her stare no less intense.

So they’d come to this conversation. It had been inevitable and Collins had been naive to think it was something he could just avoid thinking about. He shook his head mutely, unable to force the words off his tongue in reply. “Are you already married?” she pressed. “No,” he said shortly.

"Betrothed? Widowed?" Why did she keep asking questions? He wished she would just get to the end of it, just kick him out and get it over with. After each, he shook his head, staring down at his trembling left hand. It got worse whenever he got nervous. The doctor had said the nerve damage was minor but that the trembling was something to expect, and probably wouldn't go away.

“Do you not like girls?”

Collins flinched, his knee bumping into the table as he leapt to his feet, making the china tea set rattle. “No!” he gasped. His chest hurt and felt tight as a roaring buzz filled his ears. He wanted to run but couldn't move and even as he scrambled to maintain his composure he knew he was failing.

“No,” he said again, quieter this time. More in control. More firm. “How could you…that is disgusting…I…,” The little control he managed to regain slipped away as the words tumbled out wrong and tangled. Faye sighed and honest to goodness rolled her eyes. “Sit down before you fall down,” she said in exasperation, that rolling Irish lilt snapping sharply as she glared up at him. 

Collins didn’t sit. He waited, struggling to keep his breathing even as he clenched his left hand in his right to hide the shaking. He waited for the other shoe. There was a knowing look in Faye’s eye, something that scared him. It felt like she could see straight to Collins’ core, stripping him down and laying his soul bare right on the lace tablecloth. He contemplated leaving, just turning tail and running like the coward he was, but Faye’s glare froze him in his shoes.

“Did I ever tell you I had a brother?” She phrased it like a question but it didn't seem like she was wanting an answer. Collins said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice anyways. “There was only a year between us," Faye continued. "Growing up, he was my best friend. We did everything together, told each other everything. And when I was fourteen, I caught him with the neighbours lad out behind the barn.”

Of all the things Collins expected her to say, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t even on the list. He felt hot and cold by turns, a strange prickling sensation tingling across his skin and he could still hear that roaring, so similar to the roar of a bomber engine.

“He made me promise not to tell Da,” he heard Faye continue, her voice growing reserved and far-away feeling as it drifted past his ear. “Begged me not to tell. I’d never seen him so scared. And so I did, I promised. I never told a soul, until now.”

Collins forced himself to look up, to drag his gaze from his shaking hands to those bright green eyes which were over-bright and sparkling in the sunshine. “Da found out a few years later,” she said softly, throat bobbing as she swallowed the memories. “Sent him away to be _cured_.” Her lips twisted bitterly at that last word, like it was something ugly. “I didn’t recognize the man who came home,” she continued, breath hitching ever so slightly. “He wasn’t my brother anymore and two months later, he hanged himself in the barn.”

He couldn’t breath. He didn’t want to know any of this. It made it so much harder. She deserved better. Collins had never wanted to hurt her. He should have stopped this long ago, should never have let it go on so long.

“I left the day after the funeral and never looked back. Haven’t talked to my family since.” Now Collins had to looked away, unable to take the misty look in Faye’s eyes. He heard a soft sniff and took a shaky breath himself as he stared out the window above her head. There were flower boxes, filled with pansies and poppies and marigold.

“I know it’s not normal and whether or not it’s natural, I don’t know.” He couldn't stop the flinch that sparked like electricity through his body at those words. “All I know is that I’m not going to let another decent young man be ruined by something that isn’t his fault.”

Collins’ throat closed as his breath hitched wetly in his chest. All his life, ever since he knew he was…well, he’d lived with this constant fear of someone finding out. That someone would know, someone would see. And now someone did.

Wood scraped softly and Collins’ eyes filled with fire as a pair of small, gentle hands covered his own shaking ones. His sight wobbled and blurred as his chest constricted painfully. “We could be good for each other,” she said gently and the words stung but Collins knew she was right. He wouldn't have to pretend to her. They’d pretend together, putting on a show for the world. And if it ended in bitterness and hate, then at least he could say they had tried. That he had tried.

“Okay,” he said softly as his eyes burned.

Those gentle hands squeezed his, thumbs gently rubbing across his knuckles. Faye had always been so insightful. She had this way of seeing straight past the bullshit and the walls a person built up around them. Sometimes, however, she was too perceptive for comfort.

_“What was his name?”_

And with those four little words, she tore open his heart and let out all the hurt and lose he had carefully kept bottled up for the past six years.

In the first few days after Dunkirk, Collins had refused to let himself grieve because Farrier wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. He’d made it off the beaches and Collins just had to wait because Farrier was coming home. After a week, Collins had to accept the fact that Farrier probably wasn’t coming hone but he refused to allow himself to properly grieve because to grieve would be to accept the fact that Farrier was gone. That he wasn't ever coming back and Collins wouldn't have been able to handle that. There were too many people depending on him to fall apart. He had become a symbol, as often happened to pilots who survived long enough. He couldn't allow himself to go to pieces.

Slowly a few weeks turned into a few months, which turned into six years and then the war was over and Collins still didn't allowed himself to properly grieve. The closest he’d come was when he had to pack up the few belongings Farrier had on base to send back to his mother. He’d swallowed the tears and closed the box against the memories.

Now, it was just too much and he found himself on his knees as the memories poured from his eyes.

 

The first time he'd seen the man, striding across the hanger with windswept hair and eyes as stormy as the sea and so alive, he took Collins breath away. Farrier had introduced himself cordially and professionally, his hand warm and firm and calloused against Collins’.

The first time he’d seen Farrier laugh. Not just a quiet chuckle under his breath. A full bodied, head thrown back, teeth bared laugh. Collins had never seen the normally reserved pilot let go that much before and he wanted to make it happen again.

That time Farrier’s smoking Hurricane landed sloppily on the tarmac. Collins had been the first one there, eyes watering and hands burning as he climbed up onto the wing and ripped the canopy open. He'd hauled Farrier out by the lapels, yanking off the man's goggles and flight cap as the pilot choked and coughed. His face was streaked with soot and smoke save for a band across his eyes and forehead, like a reverse mask. And when sea-storm eyes met clear sky-blue, the jolt of electricity that crackled between them was almost tangible.

The first time they shared a cigarette, only hours after Farrier's fighter had gone up in flames. He'd found Collins on the roof of the hanger, legs dangling out over open air because it was the closest feeling to flying he could get while still on the ground. "They're giving me a Spitfire," the Englishman said, voice still rough and scratchy from the smoke. Collins hummed, reaching into his breast pocket for his cigarettes only to curse as he found it empty.

Farrier said nothing, just digging into his own pocket and producing two slightly crumpled smokes. He put both to his lips, lighting them with a spark of flame and a plume of smoke. It felt strangely intimate and Collins swallowed hard as he accepted the thin rolled paper the other pilot handed to him.

"We fly out first thing," Farrier said, coughing a little as the smoke filled his sore lungs. "We?" Collins replied, tone coloured with surprise. Farrier's lopsided smirk, curling around the end of the cigarette, did strange things to Collins' stomach. "We're providing escort for a supply drop across the channel," Farrier explained, smoke wafting from his nostrils like some strange medieval creature. "Unless you'd rather put in for another wingmate."

The first time they flew together, it could only be described as perfect. They were scarily in sync, so much so that it was like they'd been partners for years. Even their Flight Leader remarked on it, passing his praise on up the ladder. Farrier's reputation, already remarkable as a Hurricane pilot, grew until there wasn't a soul on base or beach who didn't know who he was. Collins' reputation grew as well, although he was always referred to as 'Farrier's wingman', and never any other way. Not that he ever complained.

That time Farrier found Collins on the roof, eyes red-rimmed and surrounded by cigarette ends because he'd been pulled onto a mission with a different squad who had just lost a pilot and hadn't gotten a permanent replacement. A mission that had gone horribly wrong and which Collins was the only survivor, limping back to base hours overdue with bullet holes in his wings.

Farrier had said nothing, just sat down beside him and lit two cigarettes like it was any other day. The cigarette was half burned away before Collins finally found his voice. "Don't ever let me fly without you again," he'd whispered and immediately regretted it because it revealed too much, gave away too much. He scrubbed a hand across his face, hoping to play it off as grief and shock but of course Farrier would see through him, curse it. He always did. But the gentle hand on his shoulder felt more like a lifeline than a grip about to fling him off the roof for his perversions.

The day Farrier had stormed into their shared bunk, kicking the door shut with an odd look in his eyes. Collins could still remember the thrum of fear that had crushed his chest. The older pilot looked wild, nothing like the quiet and reserved man Collins knew. He barely got a word in before the other pilot crossed the room and pulled him into a fierce kiss. He froze and Farrier pulled away just as quickly, eyes rolling in panic as he lost his boldness. Excuses fell from his tongue in a jumbled heap, tangling together in a mess of unintelligible diction before Collins silenced him and put his fears to rest.

When he'd found a photo of the two of them, standing arms over shoulders between the noses of their Spitfires, folded and used as a bookmark inside Farrier's favourite book; a well worn copy of _And Then There Were None_ by Agatha Christie.

The early mornings or late nights spent sitting on the floor, a newspaper or map open across his knees, with Farrier lounging behind him. The bigger man would always have a book in hand, usually one of those mysteries he'd read a thousand times. Collins had never understood that. Once the suspense was gone, once you knew who the murderer was, what was the point of reading it again? Whenever he'd bring it up, Farrier would just smile and shake his head as he carded his fingers through Collins' hair.

The day when Collins stood dripping wet on the deck of a civilian pleasure yacht, the salt making his hair stick up in all directions. He'd watched with fierce eyes as Farrier dogged it out with a German bomber without him. "Come on, Farrier. Come on, come on."

He'd watched triumphantly as his partner brought down the enemy plane; watched in horror as the Spitfire banked and continued on a path towards Dunkirk instead of home. Rationally, he'd known Farrier wouldn't have enough fuel to make it back across the channel, but the thought that the man might miss the evacuation, that he wouldn't be able to make it to the boats, sat like a cold lump in his gut.

 

The day that Farrier's plane had disappeared over the horizon.

 

 

  
Eventually the tears stopped and Collins found himself curled on the floor with slender yet strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and his face buried in a mass of sweet-smelling curls. Fingers were gently scratching through his hair, almost reminding him of another time, another life.

He cleared his throat, pulling together whatever shreds of dignity he had left and sat up. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. His eyes felt gritty and sore. A hand still lingered on his arm, somewhat soothing and yet feeling like a branding iron at the same time. He dared to glance up and almost broke again as he saw nothing but calm understanding and a shared sorrow. It was something he had never expected to see from anyone in his lifetime, save for one broad shouldered pilot with sea-storm eyes.

"James," he whispered. "His name was James."

 

 


	2. Oh, But My Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight years, two months, three days....

Collins was exhausted. He could barely keep his eyes open as he drove the truck down the dusty road back from town. He was covered in grease and grim and just wanted a bath and a hot cup of tea. He was also going to be late for dinner again, something he knew Faye would not be happy about.

He and Faye had been married in a quiet ceremony at a local courthouse in late July the year before. Old Mrs. Caruthers, the batty old lady with seven cats who lived across the hall from Faye’s apartment, served as a witness. Jerry, the owner of the pub Collins often frequented, was the other. The old man looked smart, the sleeve of his jacket pinned neatly up to where his elbow used to be. Mrs. Caruthers just looked batty, with a mothy green dress and hat to match.

Faye wore a pretty new dress and Collins wore a tie of the same colour. She looked beautiful, with her hair curled and neatly pinned under a little matching hat. It was a short ceremony, with a nice meal back at the pub with their friends.

It was only a week later that Collins got word his father had died.

He could still remember sitting in their front parlour in their London apartment. It felt as if the floor just fell out from under him and the letter slipped from his numb fingers. He couldn't even speak, just stared dumbly at the worn spot on the rug as Faye picked up the letter and read it for herself. She wrapped him in her arms and pressed a kiss into his hair before going off to organize their travel arrangements. She took care of everything, bless her. Collins certainly hadn’t been able to. He was still figuring out how he should feel.

Douglas Collins had been a stern yet soft-spoken man who had never been exceptionally close with his son. After Collins’ mother died when he was twelve, his father had sort of shut down. That relationship had changed after the war, though not in words. Collins had gone home, after Faye’s urging, about six months after the war ended. He hadn’t know what to do, what to say to his father. Farrier’s death still rubbed raw under his ribs; a sharp ache that refused to go away or be ignored and that wasn’t something he could discuss.

It had been awkward, sitting across the same little kitchen table as from his childhood, staring at the echo of the man he remembered growing up. Dinner was stilted conversation. Neither knew what topics were safe so they just stuck to the weather and local news, though nothing of the war. Collins had felt strange, going to bed in his old room.

And then the nightmares came.

Hellish memories of gunfire and smoke, burning oil and screaming men plagued his dreams and he woke with Farrier’s name being torn from his throat. The first thing he registered, once he stopped flailing, was the strong arms that were wrapped around his torso. Soothing words, whispered in a language he hadn’t heard in almost two decades, broke through the panic and terror. He snapped back to reality with a gasp, muscles trembling and hair soaked with sweat.

“Ye all right, lad?” his father had asked in his gruff yet gentle way. Collins almost broke down then and there, words and confessions threatening to bubble past his lips. But he swallowed them down because he couldn't say them out loud. Couldn’t make them real. “Yeah,” he whispered roughly. “ ‘m fine.” Something sad had flickered across his father’s eyes, but the man didn’t push him and Collins was glad. At the very least, Collins was glad he’d had the chance to, perhaps not mend things, but at least make them better before it was too late.

The funeral had been small and the legal proceedings afterwards painless. There wasn’t any family left besides Collins and nothing to inherit but the house and property on the west coast where Collins grew up.

They hadn't planned on making a home there but somehow it just happened. The farm was peaceful. At times it felt a little isolated but it wasn't too far into town so Collins didn't feel too guilty for asking Faye to stay. She got a job at the local school and Collins found himself working at the mechanic his father had co-owned while he'd been alive. The owner Pat had given him the job out of pity, Collins could tell, but they quickly formed a friendship. Pat had lost both sons to the war and before long was training Collins as his replacement for when the man's bad joints called him to retirement.

A year later and they were still here. They had two horses, a cow, a handful of chickens, a dog named Gypsy who'd wandered into their yard as a pup and never left, and a barn cat who spent more time on Faye's lap than actually catching mice. And in a week or so, they would have another addition to the family zoo.

Collins never imagined he'd have kids but Faye had wanted a family. She'd practically been in tears when she finally told him she couldn't wait any longer. He hadn't even hesitated. They had grown close over the years, becoming better friends than he could have ever hoped for. Faye had already given him so much, sacrificed so much. He couldn't deny her this.

 

Collins shook himself from his memories as he pulled up beside the house and put the truck in park. He trudged up the porch steps, finding Faye waiting in the doorway like always, her belly ballooning out in front of her.

“About time,” she said crossly, but with a twinkle in her eye. Collins just smiled tiredly and kissed her cheek, leaving behind a little streak of grease. She wrinkled her nose and smacked at his hip. “Get yourself in the tub,” she commanded, shooing him down the back hall. “Dinner will keep until you’ve cleaned up.”

“Yes ma’am,” Collins said with a smirk and a mock salute, to which Faye just rolled her eyes and waddled back into the kitchen.

He did the washing up after dinner, making Faye a cup of tea before grabbing his coat and boots. Faye gave him a quick smile over her mending as he slipped out the front door. She was used to his habits now. Almost every night, he would wander along the cliffs, the dog trailing along at his heels. Faye sometimes went with him but more often than not she gave him his space, something he was beyond grateful for it.

Because however much Faye supported him and seemed to accept him, he never felt like he could just be at peace around her. Not truly. Out here, with nothing but the sea and himself, he felt like he could truly breathe.

He sucked in the fresh sea air, feeling his heart slow and his muscles relax. The wind whipped through his hair and tugged at his jacket. God, he missed flying. He missed the freedom of it. The sheer joy of it. The rushing swoop of adrenaline that came with a dive or a sharp bank.

It wasn’t that he missed the war. He didn’t miss the fear, the pain, or the screaming. He didnt miss watching people die; losing people he cared about. He missed everything else. He missed the camaraderie, the discipline, the routine, the purpose. He missed having a clear purpose.

He missed Farrier.

It had been seven years and it still hurt to remember. It was like a wound that refused to heal. It had long scarred over, the pain reduced to a dull ache that he didn’t notice day-to-day. Then sometimes it would crack and bleed and hurt like the day on that boat when he watched Farrier’s spitfire soar over his head and disappear over the horizon.

Collins used to wake with the feeling of phantom arms around him. He used to hear the man’s voice whispering in his ear when drunk or tired. He used to see the man everywhere. He’d see him in the people he’d pass by, the people sitting next to him of the train, at the pub, reflected in shop windows. He’d never fully hallucinated the man, though.

Not until now.

Gypsy barked, growling and snuffling like she did around strangers. Collins turned in surprise and there he was, just standing there.

Collins blinked. The man didn’t disappear.

Collins looked away sharply, back out over the cliff. He’d finally gone mad. It had only been a matter of time, he supposed. Fuck, how would he tell Faye about this? She had supported him through everything, through the night terrors and the underlying shell shock, but this was too much. She’d leave him and she’d be right to do so. Then where would he be?

Gypsy finally stopped barking and Collins though he heard a soft murmuring but he dismissed it as something caught up in the wind. He just kept staring out over the horizon. The wind was starting to whip the surf into a frenzy, the colour of the sea so painfully familiar. White caps foamed as the waves crashed against the beach below with a thunderous roar.

Something brushed against his fingers, light and tentative and Collins tried to believe that it was Gypsy but the touch wasn't furry. It was warm and calloused and so familiar it hurt. It hurt a lot, crunching the air from his lungs in a vice grip.

“You’re dead,” Collins whispered, closing his eyes against the burning sensation that prickled across them. And then that voice, low and smooth and exactly as Collins remembered.

“I guess someone forgot to tell me,” the ghost whispered.

Tears unwillingly leaked out from under his lashes and coursed down his cheeks as Collins felt his knees give out and he collapsed to his knees on the damp grass. He hunched in on himself, burying his face in his hands. This was too much. Too fucking much.

Immediately, Gypsy stuck her nose in his face, whimpering worriedly. A soft voice murmured above him and the dog stopped trying to worm her way into Collins’ arms. “Look at me,” the ghost said. Collins felt his hands being pried away from his face. He kept his eyes shut because he knew that when he opened them, he’d be alone up on the cliff. “Look at me,” he heard again. Collins shook his head sharply, gasping for air against the pressure under his ribs.

“Collins, look at me!”

He felt his body jerk as he was given a sharp shake, the grip on his wrists grinding bone against bone. His eyes snapped open against his will and he stared up into sea-storm eyes. And stared.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached up a hand and ran hesitant fingertips across the other man’s face. He needed to know. He had to touch. He traced sharp cheekbones and up over the ridged scar that now bisected the corner of one eyebrow; over the strong yet slightly crooked nose that had been broken again since he last saw it. They trembled as they brushed across full lips.

“You’re real,” Collins whispered. The lips under his fingers quirked slightly into a familiar crooked smirk, vibrating in a silent chuckle. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Farrier murmured.

Fresh tears burned down his cheeks and his breath hitched and hiccuped in his throat. Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him in. Collins’ hands clutched the back of the bomber jacket tight and he buried his nose against the broad shoulder, breathing in the familiar smell of tobacco and aftershave.

Collins wasn’t sure how long they sat there, wrapped in the other’s arms. Finally, Collins had no more tears and he pulled away reluctantly, rubbing his nose and stinging eyes on his sleeve. He was grateful to see that he wasn’t the only one with red eyes.

“You’re here,” he whispered again, staring at the other man like a starving man stared at a buffet. Farrier just smiled gently. Suddenly, Collins became very aware that they were sitting on the damp ground and that is was starting to rain. “God, what are we doing?” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. He grasped Farrier’s hands, pulling the bigger man to his feet.

He didn’t let him go, couldn’t let him go, as his words tumbled over each other in the rush to get out of his mouth. “How are you even here? How did you find me? Where are you staying? Doesn’t matter. Come home with me. I’ll make a pot of tea. We can sit and talk. Properly talk. I don’t know where to even start or, or, or what to ask first. Am I rambling? God, I am, aren’t I? I just…I don’t…what, what is it?” he asked, seeing a shadow flicker across Farrier’s eyes.

“What?” Collins asked again, a panicky fluttering feeling building in his throat. Farrier swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. He drew his hands away, tucking them into his pockets as he rocked his weight back on his heels. “I met your wife,” Farrier finally said, his face guarded and closed off.

“Oh,” Collins breathed.

“I’m sorry, I just—,” Farrier said, taking a step back. “I spent so long trying to find you and when I finally did, I just…I didn’t think. I should have known. I didn’t expect you to wait. I just—,” Farrier trailed off, licking his lips nervously as cracked appeared in his mask. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” he whispered as he took another few stumbling steps back.

“Don’t,” Collins snapped, surging forward and grabbing Farrier’s wrist hard enough to bruise. “Don’t you dare,” he whispered.

“I can’t, I…,” Farrier’s words seemed to catch in his throat and he glanced away, out towards the sea as his eyes glittered in the fading light. “It’s okay,” Collins pleaded. “I…she…she knows,” Collins swallowed thickly, forcing the words out. Farrier’s eyes snapped to him, shock and suspicion weighing heavily on his face. “We have an understanding,” he explained quietly.

He waited but Farrier didn’t say anything more. “Please,” he said softly, hand still on the other man’s wrist because he was afraid if he let go Farrier would just disappear. A war waged in the older man’s eyes but eventually he nodded.

 

They’d returned to the farmhouse, Farrier lingering in the doorway until Collins noticed the little note left by Faye saying that she had gone to bed early. It sat atop a neatly stacked pile of blankets and pillows. Collins said nothing but he knew Farrier had seen them.

Finally they sat across from each other, the kettle sitting atop the stove. Silence echoed through the dim kitchen. Collins had no idea what to say, where to start, what to ask. Thankfully, Farrier decided for him. “What do you want to know?” he asked softly. “Whatever you want to tell me,” he replied immediately.

Farrier sighed, staring down at the tablecloth. He was quiet for a long time and Collins let him take all the time he needed. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to rush. “I made it to the beach,” Farrier finally said, tracing an embroidered flower with a finger as he spoke.

“Torched the plane. German’s arrived, marched me halfway across the country before throwing me into a _Stalags_. A few failed escape attempts and multiple camp transfers finally landed me in _Oflag_ where I stayed until it was liberated at the end of the war. Took a while to sort us all out, get us back home. Took even longer to track you down. The war office was a bloody mess.”

He shrugged, glancing up at Collins’ with guarded eyes. “Five years,” Collins whispered. “Five years in the camps. Jesus, Farrier.” The older man shrugged, glancing away. “It wasn’t so bad,” he said softly. “Others had it worse then I did.”

“Still,” Collins said, reaching across the table to cover Farrier’s hand with his. He barely brushed the other man’s fingers before Farrier flinched away, glaring across the table at him. Collins froze. He’d never seen the man’s eyes look so cold.

“I just got lucky,” Farrier said bitterly. “Lucky that I wasn’t shot on the beaches. Lucky I wasn’t starved, or beaten, or left to die in a ditch somewhere.” Collins swallowed, his throat feeling prickly. The other man’s eyes looked wild even as his voice stayed quiet, the words hissing sharply past his teeth.

“Lucky I wasn't picked for execution after the escape attempt,” Farrier snarled softly, a sneer twisting his lips into something nasty. “Lucky I wasn’t transferred to the concentration camps, that I didn’t piss off the wrong officer. It was just dumb fucking luck. I didn’t do anything, I—,” Farrier swallowed his next words, eyes dangerously over-bright.

Collins heart lurched and broke for the man sitting across from him. He seemed hunched in on himself, like he was trying to appear smaller. An almost fragile air hung around him and it scared Collins like nothing ever had before. He slowly reached across the table again, slowly closing his hand over Farrier’s trembling one. “You survived,” he whispered. “You can’t feel guilty for that.”

Collins wasn’t sure if Farrier believed him or not, but the man seemed to calm down. He sniffed sharply and didn’t shrug off the touch again. They both jumped as the kettle let out a shrill shriek from the stove. Collins leapt up, snatching the kettle from the stove. He slowly poured the water into the teapot, managing not to spill the scalding water all over himself as his hands trembled.

He carefully set the pot down between them, hoping the man hadn’t noticed the shaking. He was wrong. His hand was grabbed up as he moved to sit back down. He took a shaky breath as Farrier held his hand lighting between his, staring intently at the trembling appendage.

Questioning eyes flicked up to his and Collins swallowed thickly. “Nerve damage,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more they could do.”

He moved to pull his hand away but Farrier didn’t let him. He kept holding his hand, fingers running gently along the tendons and scar tissue. Collins had to remind himself how to breathe as Farrier flipped his hand over, running his thumb across the palm and up across his pulse-point.

“Five years, you kept me alive,” Farrier whispered softly, so softly his voice almost didn’t make it to Collins ears.

Watery sea-storm eyes slowly met over-bright sky blue.

“You’re what kept me alive.” A single tear bloomed on Farrier’s eyelash, trickling down the side of his cheek. Collins squeezed Farrier’s hand as hard as he could as he slowly knelt in front of the other man. He reached up a hand, cupping Farrier’s face and carefully brushing the tear away.

“Oh, James,” Collins murmured carefully, cherishing the feel of the man’s name on his tongue.

“Fin,” Farrier said, breathing the name like a prayer.

Soft lips pressed against his, familiar and warm and perfect. A hand gently brushed along his jaw to cup the back of his head as Farrier leaned forward to deepen the kiss. They took their time, severing the taste of each other. Collins eyes closed and he let himself drift in this moment, feeling a little light headed.

A sharp inhale had them springing apart. Farrier spun away from his, face flushing a deep red as Collins clapped a hand across his mouth. “Fin?” a soft voice filled with pain gasped and Collins closed his eyes against the panic and guilt. Shit. He got to shaky feet, eyes lingering on Farrier whose back was firmly to him now, hands white-knuckling the tops of his trousers.

“Finlay Collins, you look at me right now!” The voice cracked across the kitchen, sharp and insistent. Collins turned slowly, eyes meeting her wide stare. It took him a moment to realize that they were wide, not with shock of what she had just witnessed, but because of something else entirely. “Well?” Faye snapped, one hand tucked firmly around her belly even as the other braced her against the wall.

“Oh,” Collins breathed. “Oh!”

He started forward, hands hovering just above Faye, not sure how to help or what to touch. “Now?” he gasped. “Now,” Faye groaned, doubling over with a gasp. “Right. Alright. Ummm. Yes, we should…uhh…you need to lie down, right? Is that what you need to do? This is happening right? I mean, happening right now!”

He would have kept rambling but suddenly Farrier was there, gently maneuvering him out of the way to take Faye’s elbow to help steady her. “Why don’t you go get the doctor, hmm?” the man suggested, any trace of earlier embarrassment or panic long gone and replaced with calculated calm. “Yes, the midwife, right,” Collins exclaimed, snatching up his jacket.

He paused, eyes searching Farriers for something, he wasn’t sure what. Whatever it was, the man seemed to understand and nodded sharply. Collins nodded back, hesitated, and then pressed a kiss against Faye’s curls. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised, not missing the flash of pain that flickered across Farrier’s face before he tucked it away.

Collins wanted to say something, anything to help make this better but Faye suddenly doubled over even further with a guttural groan. Her hand squeezed Farrier’s hard enough to make the man wince and with that, Collins flew out the door.

 

  
Rose Elliot Collins was born at dawn, named for Collins’ mother and Faye’s brother. She came into the world kicking and screaming, with a full head of white-blonde hair and the bluest eyes Collins had ever seen. The midwife proclaimed her to be “small but sturdy,” before packing up her bag and leaving with one last sniff.

Rose lay fussing in Faye’s arms, Collins tucked in beside them on the bed. “She’s perfect,” Faye murmured, smiling as she stroked the baby’s chubby cheek gently. Collins just smiled, unable to find the words to express this warm feeling that had settled in his chest as soon as he had laid eyes on the child.

A creak and a soft cough caught their attention. Farrier hovered in the doorway, hands nervously tucked into his pockets. “Don’t want to intrude,” he began, eyes wary and giving nothing away. Collins swallowed thickly even as Faye smiled tiredly up at him. “Not at all,” she said, motioning the man inside. “Would you like to hold her?”

Farrier hesitated, unease radiating from his entire body. Collins himself had been pointedly staring anywhere but Farrier, or Faye for that matter. He tried his hands but they were shaking to much for comfort. He tried the bedspread, the floor, the window but nothing seemed to satisfy for long enough.

“It’s alright,” Faye was saying, sitting up and holding Rose out to the reluctant man. “Here, just support her head.” Collins watched in surprise as Farrier carefully gathered the baby into his arms easily, hands confident even as his eyes were nervous. “You’re a natural,” Faye beamed as Farrier tucked Rose into the crook of his arm.

“Brothers and sisters,” the man explained softly, staring down at the little girl. She slowly settled as he rocked her gently, the funny little whining noises stopping. Then she opened her eyes and stared right up at him. Farrier’s face broke into a true smile, his carefully guarded expression shattering, and Collins found himself smiling with him.

The moment was over all too soon as Farrier glanced back down at the two of them and his guard slipped back up. “I should be going,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’ve been very generous but I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

Collins forgot how to breath and he just barely managed to stifle the urge to grab Farrier as he bent down to return Rose. All he wanted to do grab him and hold him and make sure he never left again. But he didn’t. He couldn’t and they both knew it. However much Faye said she accepted him for who he was, this was too much and he knew it. He stared down at the bedspread, knowing if he looked up at the man before him he wouldn't keep it together. And then one word, spoken so gently and so perfectly that it broke his world.

“Stay,” Faye said softly.

Collins looked up, startled and wide-eyed. Farrier himself looked like someone had smacked him upside the head with a board. He stood frozen, in a comedic half-bent posture, Rose still tucked in his arms.

Collins stared at Faye. She wasn't looking at him, though. “I’d like you to stay,” she said to Farrier, placing a soft hand on his arm. “I…I don’t,” Farrier stuttered, caught completely off-guard. His wide eyes flicked to Collins and back. “Oh, sit down before you fall down,” Faye laughed. “The pair of you, honestly.”

Farrier sat as instructed, plunking down on the edge of the bed with a soft thwump. Rose squirmed and protested the jostling, which torn Farrier’s gobsmacked attention away from Faye. This gave Collins the chance to stare down at the woman himself, for one private moment while Farrier was occupied. She just smiled at him and patted him on the cheek.

He laughed, because how could he not? What had he ever done to deserve this woman in his life? Farrier glanced up, startled at the sound. He sought out Collins’ gaze, a question burning in them. “You heard the lady,” Collins exclaimed and if his voice was a little shaky, neither of them commented on it.

 

The day was warm, even if the breeze was cold. The peace after the storm. The sun was shining and the birds were arguing in the trees while the cat stalked them unsuccessfully from the ground. Collins stood on the front porch, taking in the day with Rose bundled in his arms. He couldn't stop staring at her. Only hours old and yet she already had him completely wrapped around her finger. He knew as soon as he saw her he would do anything for her.

The screen door creaked and heavy footfalls thumped behind him. “Faye’s asleep,” Farrier rumbled, stepping up beside him. “Good,” Collins murmured, rocking Rose gently back and forth. They stood in silence a long time. Collins could feel there was something Farrier was burning to say, but he let him take his time.

The war had changed them both. It had tempered Collins’ hot-headed tendencies, made him more patient and understanding, if not calmer. It had made Farrier quiet, far more hesitant than the confident man Collins had known before, but it had done nothing to his dry sense of humour. They both carried scars now, seen and unseen; scars that told stories, both painful and important. They told stories of hope and new beginnings, of old pain now shared.

“What are we going to doing?” Farrier said finally. “I don’t know,” Collins said. Farrier ducked his head with a frown, his hands twisting in his pockets. At that moment Rose decided to let out a gurgling chortle. Both men glanced down in time to see her open her eyes and produce a gummy smile. Collins beamed while Farrier chuckled quietly under his breath.

On a whim he shifted closer, allowing their arms to brush against each other. He felt Farrier tense and looked up to find sea-storm eyes already searching for his. Those same stormy eyes that held so much hidden suffering also held a question, a hope, a terrified desire. Collins smile and leaned against the broad-shouldered man, slowly feeling him relax.

“But we’ll figure it out.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust!!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust!!


End file.
